


láska si žádá péči

by armethaumaturgy



Series: Left Hand AU [6]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cronos Syndrome, Cross (X-tale) - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Dust (Dusttale) - Freeform, Dust Has Abandonment Issues, Ecto-Genitalia (Undertale), Explicit Sexual Content, Horror (Horrortale) - Freeform, Horrordustcross, M/M, Panic Attacks, Phantom Papyrus makes an appearance to be his usual shitty self, Safeword Use, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29845665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: Horror was waiting for them by the doorway, arms crossed as if he was keeping himself from touching his head, or maybe claw at his empty socket like Dust saw him sometimes. Their gazes met, and they stared at each other for a few seconds that may as well have been an eternity for as long as they felt.“No,” they said, nigh simultaneously, and Cross clucked his tongue, almost chidingly.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Left Hand AU [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181261
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	láska si žádá péči

**Author's Note:**

> this fic deals with the explicit idea of being replaced, and the resulting fear. it's an unconventional trigger, but as it is one for me, i wanted to give an extra warning for it. please proceed with caution while reading this. thank you.
> 
> title taken from ewa farna's 'Na ostří nože' yet again

It’d been worth it, Cross reasoned, to have suffered through Killer’s teasing and all too explicit descriptions, if it was for his teammate.

His approach to Dust’s problem wasn’t  _ incorrect _ , per se, but it was obvious he’d tried for too big a change too fast. Seeing Dust without emotions had been jarring, and despite Nightmare’s assurance that he’d be fine (which he had been, a day or so later), Cross hated the idea of causing emotions that left Dust wanting a full absence of  _ all _ of them.

So he had gone to Killer and listened to over-flourished recollections of past encounters between the two of them, hoping most of them were embellished to get under his nonexistent skin, while simultaneously knowing they weren’t.

He’d cherry-picked bits and pieces of all of them, meticulously constructing a scenario in his mind that would turn Dust’s usual escapades a bit more safe. He wasn’t completely satisfied with it, but the time had come for the session anyways. He took the fact that Dust did indeed come to him like he’d asked as a good sign.

“Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. “There will be rules again. Fire off twenty blasters, same way as last time.”

Dust obeyed him, lining the constructs up. The strain was obvious in him this time, and Cross knew he couldn’t keep this many up for that long. But that was okay.

“Hold them. I’ll return.”

Dust watched him teleport with curiosity and apprehension, but he did as told, blasters screeching as he held them steady. By the time Cross returned, he was drenched in sweat and barely on his feet, even if it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. He’d never thought ten blasters could make such a difference, but then again, who just kept them firing non-stop? He wasn’t stupid, he knew none of the others could hold this many for this long; they simply didn’t have the magical reserves for it, unlike himself.

Cross could probably hold them the longest, but he could never hold a candle to Dust. He didn’t like sparring with the others, found it pointless and boring if he couldn't even maim his opponent, not to mention they all could read each other like a book by now. Nevermind the fact that Papyrus didn’t like that; keeping his voice and the bloodlust at bay was an effort Dust wasn’t willing to expend most of the time.

But back when Cross had been fresh meat — fresh meat that beat Killer into the ground, no less — he’d found himself wanting to show off. So he had, just to make sure everyone, Killer included, knew and remembered who was the strongest out of them. Let the idiots vie for the captain’s position; it’d never been what Dust wanted.

“That’s enough,” Cross told him when he returned, and Dust let the blasters dissipate. His bones felt leaden, but not to the point of collapsing where he stood, unlike last time. “We’ll have an assistant today.”

Dust inclined his head, but Cross didn’t elaborate, just held his hand for Dust to take. So he did, and closed his sockets when they brushed with the Void, his bones prickling at the sensation of a shortcut that wasn’t his own.

Cross’ room was as simple as a room in Nightmare’s castle  _ could  _ be, just the bare amount of furniture neatly organized by the walls. He’d even taken the canopy off the bed. Dust preferred his own, if only so he could pretend the shadows in the corners of his room were merely the play of light.

It didn’t work, most of the time, but that wasn’t the point.

Horror was waiting for them by the doorway, arms crossed as if he was keeping himself from touching his head, or maybe claw at his empty socket like Dust saw him sometimes. Their gazes met, and they stared at each other for a few seconds that may as well have been an eternity for as long as they felt.

“No,” they said, nigh simultaneously, and Cross clucked his tongue, almost chidingly.

“Safewords, both of you,” he demanded, and his tone left no room for arguing.

Eventually, Horror broke the staredown to look at Cross and, begrudgingly, he said, “Blue snow.”

Cross sighed. “That’s two words, but sure, whatever works for you. Dust?”

Two sets of eyes (or one and a half, if he was being  _ technical) _ set on him. He would’ve left if he wasn’t tired and the premise of getting what he wanted (don’t think about how he  _ needed _ it) was in reach.

“Stab,” he said, mirroring Horror as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Good. Either of you need to use it now?”

Dust glanced at Horror, who appeared to be mulling it over, but he kept his mouth shut. He wouldn’t let Cross see him as pathetic as he had let himself be last time.

After a bout of terse silence, Cross nodded and beckoned them both to the bed.

“Strip,” he ordered, so Dust started shucking off his clothes, feeling all too exposed as he pulled his hood off.

_ ‘Are you really going to trade me for a quick fuck? You disgust me,’  _ Papyrus said when he pulled the crimson scarf off, and his phalanges tightened around the worn fabric.

“Not… a good idea,” Horror said. He was already naked, all his scarred bones on display. Cross followed his gaze to where Dust’s hands were shaking as they gripped onto the scarf.

“Put the hoodie back on,” Cross told him. Really, it was more of a vest now, considering he’d ripped the sleeves off in the midst of an episode, but he complied anyway, tension falling off his shoulder a little as he pulled the hood back on. The shadow that befell his face was familiar and comforting.

Horror was watching him like he knew what was going through his mind, and it made him bristle. He wanted to drive a bone straight through that judgemental look, make another hole in his cranium to make it more symmetrical. His hand twitched with the urge, but he kept it by his side.

“Alright. Horror, do you need help? Dust, make an ecto.”

Horror nodded, and as Cross moved over to lend a spark of his own magic, Dust found himself loathing the way Cross commanded him, like he hadn’t been all soft and  _ nice  _ (what a fucking joke) last time. Fucking hypocrite, that’s what he was, down to the marrow in his bones.

The moment his magic was battle-ready again, he’d turn a  _ hundred  _ blasters on him, for the audacity to make him an emotional wreck. His body took shape despite his thoughts, though, and he scoffed at himself.

Cross pulled him by his humerus and set him onto Horror’s lap. Dust looked down, at the rust-red cock resting under his own, and he had to look away when he caught sight of Cross’ purple, making up the rest of Horror’s body. It was a shade or two off of his own, too close for comfort.

“Prepare him,” Cross said, and Dust grit his teeth. Horror’s phalanges ran through the slick coating his lips, spreading it around before plunging one of them inside.

Horror was big, bigger than all of them, and despite that, it was too little, too slow. He was held down by his other hand, big enough to dwarf his thigh, and he couldn’t even buck down into the torturously slow pumps.

He growled deep in his throat and shut his sockets so he could pretend Horror wasn’t looking at him with pity. The last time he’d come to the bigger skeleton for help was still fresh in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push it out of it.

Another finger slipped into him, scissoring the ecto open with wet squelches. Did they not know this was redundant? It would adjust to pretty much anything shoved inside; it was just a magical construct.

“That’s enough. You can fuck him, Horror.”

Cross wasn’t even  _ on  _ the bed, the fucker. He stood over them like he was above them. Dust’s marrow boiled, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the faint spark of pleasure at the way Horror pulled his fingers out of him or from the cocktail of feelings towards Cross. He supposed it didn’t matter, when Horror rubbed himself over his wet folds, teasing and withholding what Dust wanted like he had any right to do so.

“Shove it the fuck in already,” he hissed, fighting the hold on his thighs.

Horror didn’t say anything, but Dust could feel his breath on the back of his neck, over the barrier of his hood.

“Give him what he wants,” Cross said, so Horror lowered him down onto his cock, too slow for his liking, but the burn of the stretch at least made up for it, if only barely.

“Fucking move, stars! I hate you,” Dust hissed, glaring up at Cross because he refused to glance back at Horror and risk seeing more of that violet, fake flesh. “You’re so pathetic, can’t ever—”

“Dust,” Cross cut him off, a fire in his eyelights as he caught Dust’s unfocusing ones. The wordless whispers were getting louder, and they were supposed to be fucking  _ gone! _ “Be quiet. You don’t get to demand anything. Others may have tolerated your behavior, but I won’t.”

Dust blinked, barely jolting as Horror started up a pace, at Cross’ prompt, a nod, cock hitting deep. It reached all the way to the back of his passage, and he couldn’t even find the pleasure in it. The pace was shallow and fact, thrusts that had his walls fluttering on their own, clamping down on Horror’s cock like they didn’t want to let it go.

“Keep going, Horror,” Cross commanded. Horror’s grip on Dust’s thighs tightened, claws digging into them as he moved him along, slamming him down onto the length in time with the way his hips snapped up.

Dust’s cock was weeping pathetically, only adding more slick to the already-loud mess between them.

“You’ll take what we give you, and you’ll thank for it.”

Cross’ voice turned steely, the same tone he used when they were on the battlefield, when he was assessing their enemies and telling them the best way to demolish them. Dust felt like he was on the chopping block. He fought back a scoff.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Dust’s voice caught in his throat, but he forced out a, “Yeah,” eventually.

“Glad we understand each other. Do you think you have any right to be demanding? Do you think you’re irreplaceable?”

Wait,  _ what? _

Dust stared up at him, meeting his sneer with wide sockets. Horror was pounding into him and his spine tingled with the mixture of pleasure and pain as he hit the deepest part of him repeatedly. His knot wasn’t even in yet, but Dust couldn’t force out a single noise.

“You’re nothing but trouble,” Cross stated, tapping his foot like he was just waiting for the two of them to be done. “It’d be so easy to go out and grab another Dust, you know.”

“Cross…” Horror muttered, tone warning, but he sounded far away, despite the fact that he was right behind Dust’s skull. Cross glanced at him, raised a browbone, and then went right back to glaring at Dust.

“I bet another one wouldn’t be half as much trouble as you are. You’re so selfish. I don’t know how anything has tolerated it for this long.”

Cross’ words registered in Dust’s mind with a delay, blurring together and into something that sounded, and  _ felt, _ like a hundred of Killer’s knives digging straight into his SOUL.

Cross’ face, too, blurred in front of him, and a cry he couldn’t hear tore itself from his throat. His body shook as he was impaled onto Horror’s length, another knife to add to all the other ones.

Sounds gradually faded away from him, and through his blurry vision, he could see Papyrus hovering over Cross’ shoulder. Their expressions were almost exactly the same, somehow. His brother’s voice was crystal clear, even if everything else felt like it was underwater, muted and faded.

_ ‘Look at you, brother. Pathetic. If I were alive, I’d be so disappointed. He’s right, you know that, right? You’re nothing but a whore, and you make it everyone else’s problem.’ _

“S— Stop,” Dust wheezed, voice almost unintelligible with the way it shook. All of him was shaking, actually.

“That’s not a safeword,” Cross snipped back, teeth upturned in distaste. “You—”

_ ‘—are so pathetic,’  _ Papyrus finished, with a watery laugh.

“This… isn’t good,” Horror said, though to Dust it was nothing but a deep rumble that shook him down to his wildly hammering ribcage.

_ ‘Killer tolerated you, because you were useful to him,’  _ Papyrus mused, and Dust begged him to shut up, tripping over the syllables. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth.  _ ‘But you no longer are. How long? What do you think, how long until Cross makes good on his promise? They’ll all find a  _ Dust  _ who isn’t as fucked up as  _ you,  _ and they’ll kill you. Or maybe they’ll put you back into our universe,  _ all  _ alone.’ _

There were tears rolling down Dust’s skull, and he only knew because he could taste the salt through his jumble of pleas. They only made Papyrus laugh more.

Dust felt like he was  _ already  _ dying. His bones rattled, his hood was falling off his skull from the way he was frantically shaking his head, and he couldn’t feel anything. He didn’t even register the fact that Horror stopped moving him, didn’t notice anything around himself until there were hands on his face, crimson claws curling over his cheekbones and Papyrus’ voice  _ too close, too— _

“—st! Dust!”

He let out a choked whine, much too high. There were no crimson claws, it was Cross holding him as he stared down into his stained face, mere inches away from him.

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

His ribcage stuttered with his shallow, uneven breathing, and his whine turned vaguely puzzled. He didn’t know what to focus on, whether to look at Cross’ wobbling features or Papyrus’ self-satisfied grin.

“What’s your safeword, Dust?”

He blinked, hearing Cross’ words (albeit through the ringing in his skull), but he couldn’t make them make sense.

“I— I—” he choked, cutting himself off with a sob.

“...stab. Stab, Cross. ...stop this.”

Horror’s voice was quiet but firm, but the words didn’t  _ make sense. _ His shivering body was lifted like it weighed nothing at all, and he found himself held, warmth on either side of him as his brother’s and Cross’ words replayed in his mind, like a broken record.

As soon as he could find his voice, he begged. “P—please… please, don’t get rid of me… I—I’ll do anything, just—”

He was shushed, and his SOUL skipped no less than five beats, body seizing up in preparation for that strike that would dust him.

But it never came.

“...ain’t getting… rid of anyone.”

He was held tighter, and his chest felt like it would split apart with how much it was shaking. It took him a while to realize that it wasn’t  _ his _ chest. Someone was purring behind him, someone big, and there were large arms around him — Horror. It was Horror.

The big skeleton hated him, always too soft to give Dust what he wanted… What was he doing, holding him?

“He’s right,” Cross said. Dust’s eyelights snapped to him — why was he so close? — but his vision was still blurry for some reason. “We won’t replace you.”

A jolt of panic shot through him and he scrambled from between them. He couldn’t get away, they were holding him too tight, they were— “Please— Please don’t—” he cried, and  _ oh, _ that's why his sight was fucked. He was crying, wasn’t he? “Please, I’ll— I won’t—  _ please…!” _

“It’s okay, Dust.” There were hands on his shoulders, and more of them around his ecto-stomach, and why did Cross have four arms? That made no sense! “We’re keeping you. No one’s like you. No  _ Dust  _ would be the same.”

“...shut up,” came a deep voice from behind him.

Right, Horror was there, too. It was his arms around his midriff.

Obediently, Cross shut up. Even between the two of them, they couldn’t hold Dust completely still, his bones shaking loud enough to rattle, all too loudly.

Something burrowed in the back of his neck, and the deep rumble he’d heart — a purr, maybe? — became impossibly loud. It was lulling Dust’s tired body to sleep with its intensity.

“...y’did well,” Horror told him. Dust couldn’t remember  _ what  _ it was that he’d been doing. “S’okay now.”

Trying to remember was making his skull pound, so he stopped trying. A few more moments of fighting his blurry — and wet? — sockets, coupled with the steady, if rusty, purr, and darkness overtook everything.

Slowly, Horror lowered his unconscious body onto the mattress and dragged the comforter over the shivering form. Then he turned to Cross, who was still halfway on the bed, one of his knees digging into the covers.

“That… didn’t go like I planned it,” he muttered, an explanation and atonement alike.

“...what’d you think… would happen?” Horror asked eventually. He was reigning in his anger, because if he didn’t, Nightmare would come. His voice still came out as a borderline growl, though.

Cross winced. “Killer told me what works for him. And since my approach didn’t… go over that well, I wanted to give him something similar. With more safety.”

Horror stared at him for a moment, his eye narrowed. Cross knew he was stringing together his thoughts, but it felt like the crimson eye was boring through him, down to his SOUL. “You… don’t know what you’re… doing. Killer does. Nightmare… too. They… know his limits.” It was the longest thing Cross had ever heard him say, but there was no time or place to feel happy about it. “I… don’t like what he does. I don’t… like seeing him in pain… S’why I… stay away.” His stare turned into a downright glare. “Maybe you should, too.”

Guilt weighed heavily on Cross’ shoulders, and he couldn’t bring himself to move, even as Horror scooped Dust’s curled up body, blanket and all, and made his way out of the bedroom.

He was left in the silence of his own room, the only thing to keep him company the pile of clothes they’d left behind. He scooped them up and trudged his way to the laundry room to at least wash them.

It was the least he could do.

And also the only thing he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @esqers


End file.
